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Travel Stories: What trip left the most lasting impression?

If anybody knows travel, it’s our readers. We want you to tell us your stories. Tell us about the trips that stick with you, for whatever reason. Maybe it was when you met your spouse, or made a new best friend or took your children away for the first (and perhaps last) time. Maybe it was when you learned something about yourself, or about the world. Maybe it was when you laughed, or cried, or were simply amazed.

Write 100 words or 200 or 1,000 or more. Write it in any way that moves you. We’ll share stories online and then publish a sample of them in print in a special section to run in the spring. Everyone who contributes a story will receive a free WSJ/TravelStories luggage tag.

Selected writers will receive a guidebook from LONELY PLANET's new DISCOVER travel series.

So travelers, tell us your stories. We’re sure you have some great ones.

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they like americans! i am an american. i am 6 feet and 1 inch. i look english until my american accent gives me away (so they tell me)

my first time in europe was at age 38. i bought a 2 month eurorail pass and spent 2 months riding the trains through 14 countries. i had heard and was a bit afraid of 'anti american' rhetoric and feeling. "its okay" i thought. "I want to know whats out there". so on my traveling trip i went. everywhere i went i would 'engage' people in conversations. i want to know what people thought, how people felt, what they liked to do, what they enjoyed. traveling for me is the greatest experience. in Gothenburg, Sweden, I got on a bus and just rode the bus in a big circle (for about an hour). it was a friday night and there must have been a festival cuz the young kids and locals were drinking and partying in full force. as i sat on a bus, a middle age woman smiled and said, "you are from america". i smiled back and I said, "yes i am". she said, "i lived in chicago for 15 years. the americans were the nicest people i ever met. they were always kind and wonderful. very helpful.very nice people the americans were to me" she said she regretted letting her visa run out so now she could not return to the states. .......on a separate trip, i stayed in paris for 45 days. everyone morning i would arise and go to the same small cafe for my double espresso. the elderly man and his wife that owned the place spoke no english and but for 'bonjour' 'dublay espresso sil vous play (sp?) " and "merci au revoir" i spoke no french. every morning i would smile at the elderly man, belly up the the bar, request my double espresso, receive it, pay and go to my table to contemplate my day. when i would leave, i would always look back and wave and say, "merci au revoir" the elderly man (and other employees) would smile and say the same.

the time came for me to leave paris. i wanted to say goodbye to my friend, the elderly man. i went into the bar, and ordered my espresso and went to my table. this time, since i knew it was my last day in aparis and i would not see the man....i wanted to tell him i was leaving and to say good bye. i wanted to tell him i was leaving that day for rome and thank him for your friendship. i walked over to the bar and i said, "monsieur....aujourd'hui...moi....roma....merci merci merci et au revoir". the man said, 'oh roma....magnifigue...." he said to me, "etats unis?" I said, "oui"...he smiled. i said, california and i said los angeles (my state and home town). he laughed and said, "arnold schwarzenegger" (our governor). for the next five minutes the elderly man communicated the many places he visited and loved in etas unis: las vegas, san franscisco, los angeles, new york.

i was beginning to worry about the time and i said, "monsieur...merci". he paused and then he signaled to ask me if i wanted another espresso. i just finished a double so i was fairly wired. just as i was about to say no, i realized what was happening: ....so i said, "oui". ...the man made two single espressos....he put the sugars on the side, with the small spoon and ...handed one to me. he then raised his espresso in the air as a toast, and he said, " monsieur, merci." from this experience i think the man was toasting our friendship, our conversation, our humanity and maybe other things as well. i do not know. but i was moved to almost tears that this man, an elderly french man, who very much knew that i was as american, took the time enough to make friends with me and to 'toast' a fellow human. it was awesome.

i have met and chatted with european girls in denmark (while on the train)...and i found they dont like our positiion on war, they didn't like the fact that we can own guns, they dont like the fact that we have the death penalty but besides those difference of opinions...they liked americans and they could not wait to go to america.

in nice, france, i engaged a spaniard, and a russian expat (now a german) in a conversation. most of my european conversatiosn consists of them bashing american for about 20 minutes. and then, the conversations 'naturally' turn and they begin to praise and thank america for all the good it does in the world. in fact, the spaniard later admittedl, 'to be honest, i think we spaniards are sometimes jealous of you".

what is my point: the europeans, althought not all but many will differ in gun, capital punishment, and war positions, very much like americans and seem entrigued by our 'gung ho" work hard mentality. so do i think everyone hates america, no. i think we all have differences but we all like each other for who we are. guess what, "they like americans!"

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Living in Dubai has its downsides. A few years back, when we landed at Heathrow, my then five year old son looked around and said, “Why is this airport so dirty?” Granted, London Heathrow's Terminal 5 was still a couple of years away, but the aseptic environment of Dubai poses a number of challenges for destinations targeting the Middle East traveler.

Even before we had come to Dubai, we had acquired the habit of taking off on an annual summer vacation on the day the children got their final reports and the school closed for the summer. Having lived in Dubai for five years, this desire to get away from the menacing summer heat had developed into more of a vengeance.

It was the summer of 2008. We had done Reykjavík the previous year and decided to go East. Jakarta and Bali were our holiday destinations. We took in Jakarta without any incident but when we checked into one of Nusa Dua’s upscale resorts in Bali, the excess of expat life in Dubai became painfully obvious. Despite the 48°C scorching heat outside, Dubai’s homes and apartments, its ubiquitous shopping malls, its restaurants and even its public transport system remain permanently set at a pleasant 20°C. The resort at Bali was, let’s say, more eco-friendly.

The humid beach resort had moist beds. The air-conditioning was there but it felt warm. A damp breeze was rustling the leaves of the palm trees outside. The sound of waves gently caressing the sandy beach also filtered through. But my children had called the resort’s maintenance crew and had them working on ways to lower the temperature in their rooms. If we had staked a tent in a camping ground they would have accepted the dank surroundings. We were paying top dollars to the resort and there was to be no compromise.
We were asked to go for dinner and promised that everything would be fine once we got back. Grudgingly we went. While returning to our rooms we saw European tourists who had come to soak in the sun calmly go into their warm and humid rooms without any complaints. We, who had come from a country where you can almost fry an egg in the sun, could not take the heat. Spoilt brats? Or, quality conscious travelers?

The next morning we checked out and moved into The Laguna Resort & Spa - one of the neighboring resorts - after first inspecting the thermostat in their rooms! A nice cool bed taken care of, we set out to be charmed by Bali.

The beauty of God’s creation was apparent on the sandy beach outside. Everywhere you looked (I did not say ogle!) curvaceous bodies could be seen. But my wife directed me to a secluded part of the beach where my son and I attempted to fly a kite. Such are the joys of family life!

We were soon approached by a person with a photo album who sweet talked us into taking a ride on a glass bottom boat to look at fishes by the coral reefs, visit an island to see turtles and then take a ride on a jet-ski and finally do some parasailing. I don’t remember how much the total cost of this was, but it was one of those things you know you will eventually get conned into doing. And we did.

The hotel had warned us that the sea was rough and it was best to avoid motorboats in the afternoon. But the ridges on the forehead of the smooth talking vendor foretold those who had succumbed to his charms before that this man had perfected his skills. He got us to agree to go on a 30 minutes boat ride into the open sea to see the corals and the multi-colored fishes and then go beyond to the distant island where turtles were bred.

The waves were strong. The frothy water was chalky. The glass bottom boat may as well have been made of lead. When we reached the corals the boatman cut off the engine and we floated. We did see some fish. But my wife and daughters had made up their mind. We were not going to see any hard shelled marine creatures procreate and watch hatchlings slip slide their way into the sea – we had already seen all that as part of a school trip to the green turtle preservation project at Sandspit beach in Karachi. We were not going to be smooth talked into staying afloat for any minute longer than what it would take us to go back to the shore.

There were no menacing waves near the shore. Terra firma beneath our feet had reassured us that all was good. There were a number of people doing the rounds on jet skis. It looked cool. Terra firma gave in to the charm of aquamarine sea water. We acquiesced. I have ridden a motorbike on land. It was a similar experience but on water. The jet skis were way cool. We drove around for a few minutes spewing a jet of water behind us and holding on to the handlebars to ensure that we did not crash into the water.

Parasailing was next. The rainbow colored parachute that you get hitched into looked beautiful in the azure blue sky which was powdered with a few wisps of white cloud. A picture postcard scene. But you had to be harnessed to the chute and the motor boat would tug you and you would fly into the great blue sky above. The consolation was that there was the sea below.

My son was the bravest amongst us. Parental pangs of fear notwithstanding, we let him fly. He told us that it was scary at first but the view from above is glorious and the adrenaline rush is worth it all. We got some great pictures of him. But the rest of us chickened. Couldn’t do it!

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Without a doubt, my favorite, most memorable, most inspiring, and "most" everything, trip was my family's Christmas adventure in France and London. Never have I been more moved by personally visiting places that I'd only ever seen in pictures. Probably, the most memorable moment, though, was walking out from the subway system and being right in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The only thing that can compare to the feeling in my stomach that came as I stared breathlessly at the towering monument above me was the feeling of being in love. On the plane ride home, my creativity had been so inspired that I spent the nine-hour flight drawing, writing short stories, and planning how I could carve a bar of soap to look like the carvings I'd seen in the churches.

Not only was my spirit inspired by this trip, but also my sense of humanitarianism as I was able to "save the life" of a young tourist whose fur-collared hood had become lit when she stood too close to a candle in one of the many churches we visited. This church may have been Sacre Coeur in France. I couldn't decide the best way to stifle the flames, but quickly found that blowing it out was the easiest thing, aside from dowsing her in a bucket of water, which was not to be found anyway. She didn't even realize that her coat had been ignited and was almost oblivious to my heroics, smiling as I patted her arm.

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Aahh, Pamplona, Spain. The Running of the Bulls. When Hemmingway wrote the book "The Sun Also Rises", there was quite a different meaning behind the fiesta of San Fermin, the saint. Today we might use a related title to go along with the current fiesta, The Running of the Drunks. Here is a little story you may want to read that tells you a little what it is like during this festive time in Spain.

The Running of the Bulls is probably the wildest party ever, toping Mardi gras in New Orleans by far. When we arrived the first day, we wanted to scope it out. We found the path (full of bars and souvenir shops) where the bulls run. There is an information center near where you can get a free map. So we got the map and followed the path and looked for a good place to view. Later, we sat down in one of the many outdoor watering holes on the main square in the old town and had a pitcher of Sangria, something not to be missed. Talking with some of the people that were going to run the next day, we found that you are supposed to fill out a check off sheet and sign a waiver just in case you get gored to death. Hey, but that's what it is about right? The thrill of dodging a charging 2000-pound hunk of sirloin.

Following the trail once again, the many bars opened up and loud music raged from each door. A variety of street acts did their thing while watchers tipped them for their skills with Euro coins. The crowds were getting drunk and rowdy in a variety of languages. By the way, the native people in that part of Spain do not speak Spanish as a first language; they speak Basque, a language that is unlike any other in the world. There are lots of strange letters in the language that look unpronounceable. Don't even try to read the road signs. Look at the ones in Secondary Spanish. Anyway, it looked like it was getting rough as the sun was setting, 10pm or so. We headed back to the car which we parked a couple of miles back in a ditch along with some other vehicles. Since there was nowhere to stay in the town, we stayed at the Capital city of the Bosque, Gasteiz/Vitoria. Gasteiz being the name in Bosque. By the way, Pamplona in Bosque is Irunea.

Vitoria is a nice clean town and we were able to get a four star hotel for half the price of a one star in Pamplona, had their been one available. There is a good radio station in the area, RENE3, which plays a little bit of everything in no particular order. The only problem with Vitoria is that if you don't live there it is easy to get lost since many of the streets are set in triangles. I walked from the hotel to get a bottle of wine just a couple of blocks away and got lost for about an hour. Great prices on everything. Try your Spanish with the people, yours is no worse than theirs. Basque, remember.

So off we go at 4 or 5 in the morning, I'm not too sure as I don't respond real well that early. We arrived in Pamplona and found our parking spot in the ditch like before. Because of the way Pamplona sits near the Prime Meridian, the sun sets very late and rises very late. Some places tell you the Bulls run at 7, but it is really at 8. When we arrived it was still dark and the people were as drunk and crazy as can be and still drinking. The smells of stench mixed with Pot smoke filled the air. As we wadded through the sea of empty plastic beer cups and broken wine bottles, we were approached a couple times by bands of roving drunks. The whole area smelled pretty bad. Several people were sick and vomiting. Both men and Woman urinated in the public street. There was even a couple having sex between two doorjambs. We finally reached the area where the bulls run, just outside the opening gate. We were there early enough to get a halfway decent spot to watch.

As time neared for the bulls to run, a loud speaker roared in several languages not to try and keep up with the bulls but to pick a spot along the path to run. Everyone was dressed in white with red kerchiefs around their necks. The ones near the door were chanting and shaking what looked like rolled up newspapers. The countdown began and the chanters grew louder. Finally the gate burst open, the bulls burst out like big black rockets. Believe me, you can't run with the bulls, you just run away from the bulls. Several drunks jumped the wall to run as well. The bulls smashed people like a foot smashes a paper wasp. Some people were down and hurt, some gored but most trampled. The most dangerous part of the run is being trampled by people trying to get out of the way. Some were shaken and commented they would never do it again while others were excited and couldn't wait to do it again the next day.

As we left the running area, out came the sweepers and sprayers. Spain is remarkably clean in most parts but when the San Fermin festival is on, there is not much they can do. People sleep everywhere. One of the big green spray trucks was trying to clean the street and came upon a drunk passed out in the middle. The driver pulled his front tire almost up against the man's head and blew the horn several times. There was no response. Another worker carrying spray tools in a pouch shook the guy. The man sprang up like a spring, saluted the worker, grabbed his tool pouch and started walking away. The worker grabbed his tool pouch back and the drunk passed out in a nearby bush.

If you're going to the Festival of San Fermin to see the Running of the Bulls, do your homework. Hotels in town fill up way ahead of time. Do not go without a reservation unless you want to sleep in the streets and parks with the others. If you fall asleep with your purse or wallet, don't expect to wake up with it. There is a lot of disease from vomit and urine around; if you end up sleeping in it you are going to get sick. Many of the hotels are very old and use skeleton keys, which are easy to open, and parking is a nightmare. They will cost you an arm and a leg if the bulls don't get it first. You can opt to stay in a nearby town like we did. It's an adventure no matter what you do.

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My friend and I ventured to Isla Tigre based on a three sentence description in the Lonely Planet Panama guidebook. When we arrived at our hostel in Panama City, the hostel owners had never heard of anyone traveling there and tried to convince us to go to the island that is frequently traveled by visitors, especially since we all we had was a plane ticket and a phone number that didn’t work. We fortunately took the road less traveled and that made for quite an experience.

The morning after New Year's Day we went off to board our 14 passenger Aeroperlas plane and received a wooden ticket to board. The passengers consisted of half Kunas (the native people of the San Blas Islands) and half foreigners. The plane made two stops, one at Corazon de Jesus and one at the island the hostel tried to get us to go to. At the Corazon de Jesus stop, which was a small island with a very small runway, we realized we were the only foreigners getting off, the other foreigners gave us a weird “what the hell are you doing” look, but we had committed - we were going.

We got off on an uninhabited island and my heart quickly sped because I had read that Corazon de Jesus was a nicely inhabited island for the San Blas region. Fortunately, the Kuna also speak Spanish, so I asked a Kuna if the island we were on was Corazon de Jesus and he pointed out to Corazon de Jesus, a few feet away. After getting on a boat to Corazon de Jesus and waiting an hour by the 'airport' (which was really a larger hut with a mess of papers scattered around and no one around) a man yelled out “Isla Tigre” and we boarded his very small wooden boat. During the ride, my back was to the water and my friend was facing forward, so all I saw was her face of terror as huge waves rushed at us. We passed a number of uninhabited islands, we had no idea where we were going – two girls alone with a man who only spoke Kuna.

After a supposed 2 min boat ride, which turned into 30 minutes of gut wrenching terror waves - we arrived. The hut owners picked us up at the dock – I think I may have kissed the ground.

Isla Tigre consists of 200 Kunas and about six huts for foreigners. The six huts are located on the north side of the island - and are pretty secluded. There was one other foreigner, an old pharmacist from the Midwest, who kept throwing candy at the children and looked like he belonged in an episode of the hillbillies.

There are no electronics - there is one phone and a satellite for TV. We did get cement floors which was a luxury in San Blas but we were a bit weary since our huts were exposed. There were no real locks on the door - but I did place a wooden stool in front of one door and the other door had a "lock" which consisted of a piece of string on a nail - for some reason this made me feel at ease, although my friend would disagree.

That night they asked us if we wanted to sit and watch a dance performance practice, which occurred in the middle of the island. Everyone seemed to be out and the dancers kept messing up so it was fun to watch them merrily laugh and enjoying themselves. They also asked us to join them for a coming of age ceremony in the morning. In one of the huts there was a girl who had reached 'womanhood'. She had to stay in the hut for 7 days and nights without using the bathroom during the day - she swings on a hammock all day long.

They also offered to show us the mainland, which was a minute boat ride away. We went with one of the Kuna girls who spoke Spanish and a Kuna with a huge machete. They showed us their cemetery where they bury their deceased under a small hut with a layer of their clothes buried over their casket, on top of the mound a table is set with the deceased plates and utensils used. Mind you, crazy thoughts were going through our heads, like what if they take us to the cemetery and use the machete on us, what if they are cannibals (which their rival tribe is), what if Colombian pirates come on the island (the Kuna let Colombian drug cartels through their islands), what if there was a Tsunami, there was no way off the island - we'd have to steal a boat and brave the huge waves, it was too far to swim. Also, the Kuna girl showed us the mound belonging to her deceased grandfather, who had died walking through the same area we were walking due to a snake bite. Let’s just say our imaginations went wild. We were two young girls and the only other foreigner on the island even weirded out the Kunas.

At one point, the girl asked us if anyone knew where we were, which we first stumbled on because we had forgotten to tell anyone where we were but we quickly responded that everyone knew where we were. Fortunately, they are very honest, trusting, nice people. We learned a lot about their culture while sitting with Kunas who spoke Spanish.

The next day we left around 5 am to catch our plane back, our wake up call consisted of a man slamming into our hut and making grunting noises - obviously scaring the begessus out of us and I also had a nightmare that night, waking up in the middle of the night screaming my friend's name out - Sorry!

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My first experience with a Japanese style onsen (hot spring) was in Taiwan in 2004, where we had traveled by train to a hot spring resort in Chih-pen, Taitung. Sara and I were accompanied by her parents and sister, and were all staying in the same room at the Royal Chih-pen Hotel, sleeping on the floor on Japanese style tatami mats.

Sara had instructed me on the proper etiquette and on what to expect, so once we arrived, I did what I was told and changed into a robe with nothing underneath. This is where my problems started. For those of you who have never been to Taiwan, you should know that most Taiwanese are fairly short. I am 6' 2". I don't think the resort has many foreign visitors, because their robes are designed for 5 foot tall people. Consequently, my robe came to mid-thigh. I felt like a Go-Go dancer from the sixties.

I am generally not one who is comfortable naked around others. In the gym, you won't find me shaving at the sink buck-naked like some guys. I get in, change, and get out. So, when it came to walking around the hotel room with all of Sara's family present and my butt cheeks nearly popping out of the bottom of my robe (I was terrified to drop anything and have to bend to pick it up), I was less than happy.

Then came the announcement that we would be eating in the room, again, Japanese style: on the floor. We would all sit around a low table. I sighed and then contorted my body this way and that, while clenching my fists around the robe in strategic locations to keep the good stuff hidden. I finally got settled on the floor and comfortable, when, Michael, Sara's father, emerged from the bathroom in his robe...with his pajama bottoms on underneath! Oh ha, ha. Pick on the foreign guy. Everybody had a good laugh at me as I carefully struggled to my feet to find my pajamas.

Once we got to the actual bathing area, the men and women went their separate ways, as the bathing is done in the nude. Michael and I were on our own and he showed me the ropes (among other things). The rules are very strict and even though they are not posted, everyone knows them and follows them.When one enters the locker room, one is given a full-size towel with which to dry off at the end and a small wash-cloth sized towel to take into the bath. However, the small towel is not allowed to touch the water. It can only be used to wipe sweat off of your head and face, but must never be rinsed off in the bath. Consequently, the most common place to store the towel when not in use is folded on top of one's head. I thought for sure that Michael was joking about this and once again I would be the object of much laughter by all of the other patrons, but indeed it is true. Almost everyone had their towel on top of their head.

There were several large pools, each two to three feet deep and each a different temperature. They ranged from freaking cold to unbelievably hot. I tried all of them, moving from one to another and trying to find just the right one. I finally settled on just plain hot. As I grew hotter, it became necessary to wipe my face. Of course, I used my towel and then dunked it in the bath, wrung it out, wiped my face again, "Man, that feels good," dunked it again, this time did not wring it out, but washed my face with a full wash cloth, dunked it again, wrung it again, and then noticed Michael virtually sprinting from the other side of the room to me. This is when I found out about the first rule I told you about.

This trip to Taiwan had been a special one. Not only was it my first trip to an onsen, it was also when I had chosen to ask Sara to marry me. We were going to Kyoto, Japan after we left Taiwan, and I had planned to ask her there. Before that, however, I wanted to do the traditional thing and ask her father's permission. This little visit to the onsen was the first time I had been alone with Michael, so now was my chance. He had come all the way from the other side of the room to warn me about the towel thing and now he was sitting right next to me. I was nervous, but I had to do it.

I am a bit of a history buff, but Michael is a history aficionado. I am always interested to hear his stories, particularly of World War II. He started telling me about the origin of the term 'kamikaze'. As most of you probably know, the Japanese suicide pilots of WWII were referred to as kamikaze pilots. "The term is actually from long ago," he began. "When Kublai Khan tried to invade Japan, he launched thousands of ships from the mainland. But he and his generals were used to land warfare, not sea battles, so they had flat-bottomed boats, ill-suited for the ocean."

I was getting more and more nervous. I just wanted to ask and get it over with. He continued, "The Japanese saw the invaders coming and prayed to their gods to protect them. They went to sleep knowing that they had a great battle ahead of them in the morning, but over night, a great storm raged and when the Japanese awoke, all of the ships were gone. The word 'kamikaze' means 'divine wind' and it was this wind which saved them from the Mongols. In World War II, the Japanese believed that the kamikaze pilots would save them as well." Once again, I was very interested in his story, but my mind was on my task. I had to ask permission to marry this man's daughter.

There was finally a break in the conversation. I took my chance, "Michael, in the United States, there is a tradition that when a man wants to marry a woman, he must first ask the woman's father for permission." He looked at me expectantly. "I would like to marry Sara and I am asking for your permission to do this."

I sat naked in a bath with my hopefully future father-in-law, who was also naked, and waited for his response. He barely paused and said, "Of course, now did I ever tell you about when the American planes bombed Taiwan?" Apparently, the tradition is not a big deal in Asian culture.

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THE SUPERLATIVES OF TRAVEL ARE INTENSELY PERSONAL28 years and many trips later, the superlatives from a trip to, what was then, Yugoslavia continue to hold. My parents and I set off to Dubrovnik by way of the scenic Adriatic coast road with nothing more than my father’s war memories, and a long-lost travel narrative as guide.

THE BEST MEALWhile traveling with my parents as a child, I learned that it was perfectly safe to rent rooms from women at border crossing and other tourist spots. Their homes were always cheaper than hotels, often cleaner, and had better plumbing. Our first night after crossing the border from Austria, we made it as far as the southern tip of the port city of Rijeka. Our trusty guidebook had nothing to recommend there, so we found rooms to rent in a freshly stuccoed private home surrounded by an enormous aromatic rosemary hedge, settled in for the night and asked the homeowner for dinner recommendations. He sent us to a local park with a government-run outdoor grill. We expected little but to fill our stomachs. What we were served was simply the best fish that I have ever eaten. I live in Boston, and the seafood at Legals is world renown, but seems ordinary in comparison to the memory of the dinner we ate that night in a park overlooking a power plant along the Adriatic. It was a simple white fish sautéed over an open fire with hints of garlic and fresh herbs. I have made many trips since then to the Italian side of the Adriatic, always looking to repeat that meal; despite Italy’s reputation for excellent food, this has been an elusive hunt and this superlative meal continues to have a hold on my imagination.

THE MOST HARROWING ROADJust before we left my father had developed a detached retina, so was unable to drive. Cruising the Autobahn through Germany and the Austrian Alps had been fun, but as designated driver the real adventure was about to begin for me. As we began our trip south I realized that the A1 scenic coastal road was a busy, narrow road with sheer drops to the Adriatic without a single guardrail most of the distance to Dubrovnik. Every few miles, when I dared to look, there would be a rusty car carcass that had gone over the edge. I have been told the vistas of the Adriatic and the islands beyond were gorgeous beyond description, but I spent the entire time dodging big ugly trucks and avoiding the edge. Heading south meant that I was always driving on the Adriatic side of the road instead of hugging the mountains. Had we planned better, we would have taken the inland route south instead and followed the coastline going north. I have since clocked many driving miles both at home and abroad, and the superlative of that scary drive continues to have a hold on my memory.

THE BEST ADAPTIVE REUSEIn my entire career, I have been engaged in the built environment in one way or another, so architecture is at the top of my list of interests when I travel. Split was a must-stop. Here, at the turn of the 4th century, the Roman Emperor Diocletian built a 300,000 square foot retirement palace for himself and his attendants overlooking a quiet bay of the Adriatic. As soon as it was abandoned by the Romans in the 7th century, the locals moved in and have lived within the ancient walls ever since. Over the centuries they adapted the spaces for homes and shops. I can only imagine what Pompeii would be like were it still lived in today. This adaptive reuse was a truly living organism 28 year’s ago, the week’s laundry was hanging from many windows and posters of the latest movies were glued directly to the ancient limestone walls along with the requisite “artistic” graffiti. In recent pictures, I see no laundry. I have heard that they even built new buildings inside the walls. So in my memory, this intensely alive space remains the perfect adaptive reuse that had been allowed to grow organically over the centuries.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRIDGEDriving a short distance inland to visit Mostar was a relief from the intensity of driving along the coastline. That summer as we crossed the Stari Most footbridge from the Christian to the Muslin market on the other side, we added to the patina of over 400 years that had smoothed the limestone to a high gloss. If there was even a hint of what was to come, it was obscured by the beauty of this bridge designed with a single high arch in the shape of a perfect semi-circle. The intimate scale of the bridge and the strength of the stone along with the compactness of the old town structures made me feel the bridging rather than the separateness found on either side. The inevitable destruction of that exquisite structure during the civil war was as much symbolic as it was material. I suspect that the special beauty of the original Stari Most has been lost – despite its reconstruction and the symbolism of the global effort that rebuilt it.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL RESTORED CITYCompared to the palace at Split, the self-contained city of Dubrovnik was eerily quiet when we were there. The city has retained her foreboding walls on a precipice overlooking the sea for 1200 years; while in most modernized European medieval walled cities, the walls were removed to make way for primary ring roads as a convenience for our car-centric culture. Guidebooks have volumes to say about Dubrovnik, but they couldn’t begin to capture my own experience of solitude, shelter and strength within its gray beauty. Tulum may be as beautifully sited, San Miguel Allende may be more alive, and Mediterranean hill towns each have their own charm, but for sheer breathtaking beauty, Dubrovnik is unique and remains the superlative for me.

In 1982-other than the divide in Mostar, there were no signs of the underlying hostilities or the carnage that was to come ten years later. The only sign that we were in a Communist bloc country was the regular police roadblocks that we encountered on the inland route north through the forests of Bosnia and Slovenia. The mountain passages gave my father wartime flashbacks, so he was relieved that as tourists we were continuously waved through - apparently the roadblocks were only for citizens.

We had a wonderful trip 28 years ago, but I had no idea that so many years and destinations later, this trip would hold such a collection of unsurpassed memories for me. I am curious about what I would find today in Croatia and a return trip is close to the top of my bucket list.

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In late June of 2009, my professor from Dowling College, NY, Tom Tallerico and myself had our paper selected to be presented at the International DSJ Conference in Nancy, France from June 24 -27, 2009. What a beautiful city filled with its rich history and architecture. Our hotel, the Grand Hotel de la Reine was directly located in the Place Stanislas square which also includes Nancy’s city hall and a statue of Stanislas in the middle. Early in the morning the square is washed down with water and a street sweeping machine. One was able to take in life of the citizen there as they rode their bikes to get a loaf of bread or they strolled gleefully together worrying about nothing. Later in the day young children from various schools would come to the square as their teachers or caregivers told them of the history of Stanislas and the structural design of the surrounding buildings. Every night at 10:00 PM, rain or shine, a projection show set to music was shown against the city hall building that was as wide as two New York City blocks. The show took in the architecture of the building and had 3-D animations as well. The square was always busy and it is also a photographers’ paradise with two beautiful fountains set across from city hall at the opposite end of the square that serve as beautiful back drops. One particular portrait will stay nestled in my memory for life. This was the one where a bride stood by one of the light post in the square admiring her new husband. The chocolate brown post accented with gold trim from top to bottom was a surreal sight with this beautiful bride and her husband enjoying their wedding day with a host of unknown onlookers wishing them well. I would invite anyone reading this to look up Nancy, France and click on some of the pictures. As James Douglas Morrison once said, “Take a long holiday, and let your children play”

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A Short Travelogue With Some Business Observations
Introduction
• In November, my wife and I had the opportunity to take a cruise in Southeast Asia.
• While having fun as a tourist, I read the local English language papers and observed the local business conditions.
• We’ve heard a lot about the coming Asian Century. Without detailed analysis, just my observations instructed by several decades of business experience, I think the projections are correct.

Observations
• What I saw was aggressive entrepreneurial activity, significant capital investment and expansion, and an outward business focus.
• Here are few specific things I observed in the various stops:
o China
? Hong Kong remains a hotbed of economic activity. As a Special Administrative Region, its business focus and energy are not diminished. The number of custom jewelry and clothing makers is astonishing, and the quality is great.
? Sanya on Hainan Island is a Special Economic Zone in China that is remarkable. A place few of us have heard much about, it is a major tourist destination in the region. It is attracting visitors from many areas – especially Russia. A city of nearly one million, it is in the midst of a building boom. The cleanliness of the city makes it especially appealing.
o Vietnam
? Da Nang is the largest city in central Vietnam, and it is a major seaport and trading city. China Beach, an American R&R center during the war and subject of a TV series, is growing luxury hotels and beach resorts at a rapid pace.
? Just to the south of Da Nang is Hoi An, a smaller seaport long ago replaced by Da Nang. It is a smaller city, but with a lot of economic activity. A number of custom tailors are at work in the city, and like Hong Kong you can have custom suits, shirts, and dresses at a fraction of the price in the U.S. or Europe.
? Ho Chi Minh City is a vibrant place with over seven million residents. It is crowded and bustling with activity. The markets are full and busy with a lot of goods for sale. A good many tourist things still carry the name Saigon. The retail trade and activity in the areas we visited were impressive. We hired a local man to take us around to some non-tourist sites, and he showed us a thriving place.
o Thailand
? Bangkok is a vibrant city with a lot of tourist and business activity. The city area has over eleven million residents, and the activity and opportunity seems amazing. While it suffered a setback in the Nineties with a credit and banking crisis, it seems to have turned the corner on a new growth curve.
? Koh Samui is one of Thailand’s vacation islands. While not as well known as Phuket to many people, it already has a Four Seasons Hotel and Resort. It is a beautiful island with a lot to offer.
o Cambodia
? Our observation here was the most limited, and the area we saw in Sihanoukville was behind what we saw elsewhere in terms of development. From some of the people on our cruise who visited other places we learned the real focus of visitors should be the beaches and resorts. Based on what we heard, very nice resorts are located outside the town we visited.
o Republic of Singapore
? This city of five million is fascinating. While it is an expensive destination, it was our favorite place on the trip and one of great diversity and activity. It is multi-ethnic in every sense. The economic activity in the ethnic enclaves was remarkable. The city has some really great tourist attractions, and with the infrastructure it has in place it will remain a major economic player.
• Some general observations about the places and people we saw:
o People in the region have a good outward focus and are open to Americans personally.
o People in this part of the world are imbued with a tremendous work ethic.
o There are a good many government issues, but the individuals we saw and spoke with have a significant entrepreneurial spirit and are ready to do business.
o The opportunities are significant despite the burdens – the mood is one of creativity, hard work, and diligence.
o There is a feeling of moving forward in the air – very little looking back was evident.

Conclusions
• I was disturbed when comparing what was obvious in Southeast Asia to what one sees in the U.S. Here we seem self-absorbed and consumed with the wrong things. We are letting our political and thought leaders get away with spending time on a fractious health care debate, potentially crippling energy legislation, burdensome business regulation, and expanding the national debt. Together, these activities will damage our currency and our business environment.
• We need our people and our leaders to absorb themselves in creating the businesses of the future, energizing entrepreneurs to look for new and better products and services for people, and unleashing the potential of Americans to create wealth and add value across the whole spectrum of consumer needs. The lip service that passes for attention to the critical economic issues of our time is not helpful. If we fail at this redirection, it will be an unchallenged Asian Century. I hope for the sake of my children and grandchildren that America steps up to the significant challenge in front of us.

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Lemon-kissed: Tuscany had its day under the sun — it’s time to discover Sorrento.

My first impression of Sorrento still wafts through lovely dreams: After a long day of flights from Dresden to London to Naples, my sister and I arrived at the Hotel Bellevue Syrene in a black-ink midnight that obscured the slumbering city. At dawn, distant shouts of fishermen and the gentle surf of the Bay of Naples drifted into my consciousness. Slipping from bed, I padded barefoot across the marble floor and opened the French doors that announced our balcony. A blue mist lent an ethereal beauty to the sea hundreds of feet below my cliff-side perch and veiled the mountain across the bay, encircled by a strand of pearly lights. Mount Vesuvius. And at its feet, Pompeii. Magic. A crisp, clean breeze sweeps across the Bay of Naples and into Sorrento, a friendly and safe coastal city of 17,000 on the Sorrentine Peninsula of southern Italy with enviable proximity to Vesuvius, the Amalfi Coast, Naples and the Isle of Capri. Scented by the lemon groves that thrive in its mild climate, Sorrento has a lively pulse. Pedestrians spill from its center, the Piazza Tasso, into open-air cafes for spaghetti and pizza (purportedly invented here); tourists climb into streetcars blaring “Santa Lucia,” “O Sole Mio” and other Neapolitan tunes for 30-minute tours; cruise-ship passengers disembark for half-day port calls to shop its narrow streets, seeking bargain souvenirs in Italian ceramics, leather goods, marquetry, cameos and limoncello, a lemon liqueur produced nearby. It’s hard to imagine why one might opt to gulp Sorrento in a four-hour food and shopping binge, when a few days in the region reveal rich, lingering flavors. For history buffs, astounding destinations lie within a marble’s throw, from the ancient Greek seaport of Cumae to the famous Greco-Roman ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum, devastated by Vesuvius’ 79 AD eruption and under active excavation since the first formal archaeological studies began in 1738, funded by Charles, the Bourbon king of Naples. Treasures since unearthed are displayed at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale in Naples, which boasts one of the world’s finest archaeological collections but an amusingly inadequate restaurant, an al fresco stand dispensing oily pizza in the atrium garden. The volcanic region tantalizes scientists and sightseers. Solfatara’s fumaroles and sulphuric vents, the emerald and sapphire grottoes of Capri, thermal springs of Ischia and precipitous limestone cliffs of the Amalfi Coast offer rare peeks into the planet’s dynamic substructure. Those intrigued by cultural differences will not be disappointed by the emotive people of southern Italy: On a sunny Saturday outing into Naples, a city of 1 million, traffic ground to a halt. Horns blared, drivers shouted, polizia gestured. After 20 minutes our driver stormed to a policeman and insisted that he explain the situation to my sister and me. With a gallant bow, the officer intoned, “Napoli is closed.” Pressed for details, he shrugged and invited us to return later. We did.For those seeking sun, sea and respite from a hurried life, as my sister and I were, Sorrento satisfies. After days of fresh fish, fine wine and lemon-infused breezes, besotted by the myths and ruins of the ancients, we reluctantly returned to reality, entranced by a siren of the sea forever entangled in our imaginations, Sorrento.